


At the End of the Game, When Nothing is Ever the Same

by YumeNoTsuzuki (Yumejin)



Series: Harrymort Prompts [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drabble, Implied Relationships, M/M, Prompt Fill, References to Suicide, Short, Temporal Paradox, Time Travel, very mild though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yumejin/pseuds/YumeNoTsuzuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill.</p><p>Years of fighting and losing have turned him into a wreck, a coward and a liar. He's not sure if he cares enough to save everyone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of the Game, When Nothing is Ever the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IsysSkeeter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsysSkeeter/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [IsysSkeeter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsysSkeeter/pseuds/IsysSkeeter) in the [HarryMort_Prompt_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HarryMort_Prompt_Night) collection. 



Harry groans slowly, feeling the pulsing pain at the back of his head. It’s quite surreal, he opens his watering eyes and realises – he’s not dead. He’s in fact, cold and shivering and in pain, but otherwise quite intact. He curses, bringing himself up to his knees. He’s still in the Ministry, except… the rubble of destroyed walls and the old, dry blood and the rotting bodies are gone. He blinks. Hell, he’d gotten more than enough surprises in his lifetime, but this is outside even his expectations.

In front of him, the Dark Lord, in all his serpentine glory, is sleeping upon an excessively large bed. Harry’s head spins and he’s suddenly speechless, but his mind slowly pieces together an incredulous theory to explain the situation. He’s travelled back in time. Voldemort is still in power, having overtaken the Ministry and for some reason had arranged himself a bedroom in the _Death Chamber._ Harry actually laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, until there are tears in his eyes and he’s struggling to breathe. Voldemort wakes up, alert and angry, but freezes mid-motion just as he was raising his wand, when he spots the source of the hysterical laughter.

Harry so totally doesn’t even give a flying fuck anymore and he’s still rolling on the floor, holding onto his sore ribs as he wheezes out another loud laugh.

“…Potter,” Voldemort grinds out with a hiss reverberating between his teeth. He’s out of bed at once, black flowing robes an’ all. Harry’s  laughter dies down in his throat a little, and he sits up, not bothering to take out his wand. He snorts at the sight of Voldemort. It’s ironic, but he’s actually _happy_ to see the bastard. After all the death, suffering and pain he had seen caused by Muggles, he had missed Voldemort’s cruel but effective tactics. He had more than once wished that he hadn’t killed the Dark Lord even if just to stall the war between the Wizards and the Muggles by a little while. Voldemort had the power to either conceal the Wizarding World or to destroy the filthy little non-magical maggots. Harry wishes he’d had the same strength, cause he really could have used it. Maybe then, some of his friends would have survived the First War…

Voldemort looks at him like he’s grown another head. Oh, yeah, he spaced out a little. Overdosing on magic enhancing potions tended to do that. Got a little high sometimes….

“So are you going to kill me now?” he asks with a smirk. The Dark Lord should be happy enough to acquiesce.

“Should I?” Voldemort drawls and puts away his wand instead. Harry gapes and then, after a moment, realises there is a pressure on his mind. Damn it, he’d forgotten all about using Occlumency – hadn’t needed to in _years._ Muggles aren’t exactly skilled in the mind arts after all, and who else did he have to hide from when they were all dead?

“Damn,” he breathes, but  within moments, decides that he doesn’t actually _care._ He’d jumped into the Veil prepared to die. Whatever happened now… wouldn’t change anything.

Voldemort takes several moments to look him over. Harry can feel the magic crackling around them and marvels at the feeling or _wholeness_ it brings him. He even marvels at how he’d been stupid enough not to notice it until it was far too late. They could have done such great things together…

The Dark Lord paces around Harry, who is still sprawled out on the floor lazily. He’s watching him carefully, intimately and calculatingly. Every step, something new is decided and Harry knows the fate of this world, of a different future, is decided.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here,” Voldemort murmurs, fascinated. Harry just blinks up at the man uncomprehendingly.

“Magic is… timeless,” Voldemort says, sensing his curiosity. Harry’s mind is wide open, though he doesn’t have the strength or the motivation to shield it either way. “It always leaves traces. No matter how much the timeline has been distorted, there will always be traces.

“You’ve been here before, in a different past and a different future. Your indecision and inability to do what is necessary have always brought you back right… here.”

Harry mulls this over in his head for several moments. Really, he just feels tired. He’s had the fate of the world on his shoulders for what feels an eternity, but now he really doesn’t give a flying fuck. He’d tried saving the Muggles, but they’d destroyed themselves and the world around them in the process. Like cancer, they’d spread and burned through every last spark of good in the world until life everywhere had been extinguished. The Wizards weren’t much better. They were selfish and overconfident. They’d spurned the Muggles into action, driving and feeding the flames of their fear. No matter what he’d do, no matter how hard Harry would try…

“Harry, look at me,” Voldemort commands, almost kneeling in front of him. The cool, crimson eyes are a familiar, soothing sight for Harry’s confused, tired mind. “There is another way.”

There is a silence.

“Remember, under the dungeons of Hogwarts, I told you that together we could accomplish anything?” Harry nods numbly, trying to push away the pain these thoughts bring him. Ron, Hermione, Ginny… they all died, torn apart by Muggle weapons. “I did not lie to you. You can still change the future, avoid the inevitable and carve your own path…”

It’s terrifyingly charismatic and Harry wants to believe him. He wants this sliver of hope to hang on to, but it’s too good to be true. He’s scared of losing everything again. Years of fighting and losing had turned him into a wreck, a coward and a liar. If only Dumbledore could see him now!

Voldemort is calm, collected, compelling. The speech sounds almost rehearsed and Harry feels the drop in his gut when he realises that it’s probably because he has said it many times before. How many times? How many times had Harry chosen to condemn the world due to his own unreasonable apprehension to the man who had taken so much from him? The thought makes him shudder. He used to hate Voldemort… no, he thought he had. Hate, strong and consuming, had been unknown to him all those years, until he saw Wizards stripped of their powers, burned from the inside out by their own bodies, unable to cope. He had hated Muggles then. Voldemort’s coldblooded, although relatively humane by comparison, murder of his parents had faded in his mind. He had not known his parents. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville, countless others… he’d known them and seen their last, suffering moments as they begged for mercy.

If he had a chance, however slim, to prevent the slaughter of the people he loved…. He would… Harry strangled the thought right there. He told himself, it would all be over now. He didn’t give a flying fuck, right? Why should he try to save such an ungrateful world?

“Because you are the most compassionate man I have ever met,” Voldemort finishes for him aloud, looking at him with something almost resembling admiration. Harry can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Will you help me?” Voldemort’s slim, smooth fingers brush against his cheek. It’s a ghost of a touch, Harry isn’t even sure if he had not imagined it. He shudders. It had been years since another person had been this close to him without malicious intentions. He wants to laugh the same hysterical, hopeless laugh again – since when had Voldemort not been malicious towards him, after all, but no sound comes out of his loosely hanging open mouth.

He nods. He nods again, as if to ascertain that he had in fact just done that. He wants to run into the Veil again, run from all the responsibility. Death would surely be easier. But he can’t, for the moment Voldemort’s hand wraps around his own, he is lost. The Dark Lord’s eyes are still on his and his gaze is sure and steady. He knows what Harry is thinking and his grip on Harry’s thin, scarred and sore fingers tightens in response.

❖

Some time in the distant future, Hermione opens the thick, leather-bound tome and finds and empty page. Gently putting the quill against the parchment, she hesitates. _The War That Never Was_ , she thinks, will be a fitting title. Not sure how to begin the extraordinary tale of her best friend, who had saved the whole world from imminent destruction by accepting an offer of peace from a Dark Lord and against all odds, protecting the fragile balance of the Ministry under Voldemort’s control, she puts the quill back down.

She briefly contemplates visiting Harry, maybe getting a second opinion on the title of the book, but quickly dismisses the idea. He’s almost always gone – travelling abroad, ensuring peace at the side of the Minister and his mysterious, raggedly handsome accomplice. They work themselves to death, she’s sure, because Harry’s never known when to stop, but maybe it’s a good thing. Thanks to Harry, she will have another day to write the book.

 


End file.
